


A Midsummer Night's Wet Dream

by Unchained_Daisychain



Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crossdressing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sneaking Around, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, more Rough!Paul, more thigh love, thigh movement 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: As soon as they finish their spoof of "A Midsummer Night's Dream", John and Paul, still donning their costumes, move their onstage love to a vacant prop closet for a quick tryst.-His fluttering lashes and heady eyes—soliloquizing indecent thoughts in a single glance—had nearly threatened to break John’s character. Jostling the slumbering Pyramus so roughly had been more of a retaliation than anything. Intermix declarations of love, and the line of performance and reality blurred confusingly so.“‘S called acting, love,” Paul justifies with a teasing simper.John steps closer, enticed. “How ‘bout another rehearsal, then?”
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613551
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	A Midsummer Night's Wet Dream

**Author's Note:**

> **anonymous:** "thigh/leg fic but they're in their midsummer night's dream characters. like they get to it right after the show. paul, er- pyramus gripping thisbe's thighs as he holds 'er against the wall in some closet they locked themselves into"
> 
> wanted to have this one posted on the date of the Shakespeare anniversary, but I'm nothing if not (un)fashionably late. thank you to the anon who sent this in, I really loved this idea

**London, 28 April 1964**

“And so farewell, friends, thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu….”

The audience roars as they clasp hands and recline onto the stage, as though shoved in the chests by their screams. For only a handful of seconds (though stage-time is eternal) John basks in the ovations and rare opportunity for this public display of affection. He can hardly believe they sailed their way through the play with the only heckles being pre-planned ones. Laughing through his final lines, he looks at Paul as they sit upright again. 

The warmth of his hand vanishes too soon.

It hits too close to home, prancing around onstage like lovers for a hatful of laughs. “John has the deepest voice,” they all had agreed, aiming for the most comical casting of Thisbe. But in front of a live, unwitting audience, their love found substance. Donning costumes and creeping like an ad-lib into Shakespearean dialogue. It had felt like getting away with something.

After John introduces the next act, the four of them skirt around the sashaying dancers and disappear backstage. In a second, each of them are swept away and divided by the undercurrent of pesky production assistants or inquiring reporters. John had been hoping to haul Paul away for a few minutes, but these events always pose a challenge. He proffers a couple of soundbites to a boyish, ruddy-faced journalist as he labors to reach the dressing room. Eventually the lad darts off with a grin foretelling the raise on his next paycheck.

At the end of a hallway leading to their dressing room, he spots Paul adding the final flourishes to an autograph. His foam helmet has been tucked beneath his arm, the efforts of keeping it stable upon his head evident in the disarray of his hair. Onstage, he had embodied all of the charm and chivalry of a Shakespearean hero. Wooing the crowd and John alike, which made his own role of the swooning lover practically effortless. Even offstage now, John can’t shake that heroic vision of Paul.

From a distance he observes the interaction—an old man scoring a gift that doubtlessly will earn him granddad of the year. 

“Fancy one from Pyramus as well?” Paul quips before handing it over.

The man smiles toothily. “I think this’ll do it. She’ll love it.” 

Appreciatively he shakes the musician’s hand and veers back around the corner. Furtive and fleet-footed, John catches up to him before he disappears into the dressing room.

“My love, my love,” he murmurs into Paul’s ear, noting a flinch before realization relaxes his lover’s shoulders. “Thou art my love, I think.”

Turning, he smiles and says, “Thought you’d stick around for the girls.”

“They thought I was one of them.” John lifts the dress and bends his knees for a comical curtsy. 

“Can’t imagine why,” Paul chuckles. “Must not know what you’ve got goin’ on under the skirt.”

A strong, veiny hand covers John’s chest. “Are you always this forward with your leading ladies?”

“Only the ones with the bollocks to handle it.”

“You’ve lucked out, son.” 

Latching onto his forearm, John intends to haul him to an unoccupied room until Paul stops him short. The patient, amused smile on his lips only invigorates the desire like rum on a fire. 

“John, we can’t,” he tries gently. 

“Oh, c’mon, you really gonna blue-ball me after all those looks onstage?”

His fluttering lashes and heady eyes—soliloquizing indecent thoughts in a single glance—had nearly threatened to break John’s character. Jostling the slumbering Pyramus so roughly had been more of a retaliation than anything. Intermix declarations of love, and the line of performance and reality blurred confusingly so.

“‘S called acting, love,” Paul justifies with a teasing simper.

John steps closer, enticed. “How ‘bout another rehearsal, then?”

“You’re serious?” he laughs.

He lifts an eyebrow. “As a heart attack.”

Quirking his lips, Paul scans the hallway, then hurriedly leads John by a firm grip around his bicep to the nearest unassuming room. They shove inside, where the dust and clutter of a dark prop closet greets them. No sooner does the door close behind them than the breastplate of a disassembled piece of armor clatters to the floor from John’s misplaced foot. 

_“Shh!”_ Paul hisses, halting the metallic thrumming with his bootheel.

“You _shh!”_ John retorts childishly. “Can’t see past my nose in here.”

“You don’t need to see.”

Fingers firm and assured in the center of his chest, Paul backs him into the wall. John’s back collides and a whisper of breath escapes him before Paul stifles the rest of it with a needy kiss. The irony of playing lovers manhandled by fate culminates in a desperation too immense for any stage to hold. And now no wall to impede their efforts.

“Wait—” John slips the black cap from his front tooth and tosses it to the floor before they continue.

Smiling, Paul leans back in. 

Blindly, his fingers unknot the red ribbon keeping John’s ridiculous wig atop his head. With it discarded in a pile of other props, Paul freely buries a hand in his unkempt hair. Greedy tugs coax moans from his throat. His own hands struggle with the innumerable layers of Paul’s costume until he at last reaches the heated skin of his lower back. 

“Christ, how many fuckin’ layers have they got you in?”

“Probably more than you,” Paul answers, warm breath panting against John’s mouth. “D’you really wanna do this in a dress?”

John’s stomach lurches at the idea of emasculation. But it lurches even more forcefully at the idea of stopping now. “Does it turn you off?”

Looking down at the wrinkled dress, he runs a hand down John’s thigh—slowly hoists it over the crest of his hip. “Not really,” he murmurs, low and throaty.

A spike of arousal streaks through John’s blood, restricting the already limited room in his red tights. That wasn’t the answer he expected. With the knee crooked around him, he draws Paul closer and angles his hips. Already half-hard beneath the dress (and fucking hell, what a concept) John grinds against the press of his body. The grip on his thigh strengthens, fingers bunching the fabric to haul it higher and higher. 

John’s cheeks redden from the attention—the realization that he enjoys this more than he should. Through smokiness and from afar, he has seen Paul seducing young birds in much the same way. He had always craved the reverence of that touch.

A cold hand splays over John’s stomach, eliciting a gasp, before sneaking beneath the red tights. Deep and urgent, Paul kisses him again. Never before have they been so brazen. Foot traffic outside the door an ever-present reminder of where they are and what they’re getting away with. 

But John quickly learns some things must be sacrificed for this illicit escapade. 

Scrapping the usual foreplay, Paul’s lithe fingers encircle his cock. With little preamble, they set a steady rhythm—no time for delicious and cruel teasing. Feeling boldly argumentative, John refuses to let their getaway be for naught.

“Really, love? Just a handy?” he asks, despite twitching at the warm cradle of his hand.

“This costume’s a bloody pain. I can’t manage much more than that right now.” Against his hip, John feels the extent of Paul’s own desire. “And anyway we’ve got fuck-all to work with.”

“You’re a creative lad. ‘M sure you’ll come up with somethin’.”

Grip firm around John’s thigh, Paul hauls him close and thrusts him into the wall again. Rough enough to relay his point, but not so jarring as to alert passersby. 

“Fuck,” he laughs quietly, dizzy with arousal. “‘Ang on—”

Clumsily, he toes off one boot and steps out of the same leg of the tights with Paul’s assistance. They chuckle at the struggle like teenagers, dumb with the exhiliration. Neither of them bother undressing more than they have to with so little time and so many articles of clothing. 

As soon as he hooks his knee back around Paul’s hip, two fingers slide into his mouth. A moan of surprise rattles the knuckles. He slickens the digits with deft, teasing licks of his tongue. Heavy-lidded eyes lock, and the exchange of naked lust has John’s stomach whorling. For certain now, he knows his patience wouldn’t have sustained the next few hours.

With a tinge of reluctance, Paul removes his fingers from his mouth and feels his way beneath the dress again. Wetly, they graze John’s inner thigh, brush past his aching balls. His throat dries with the effort to remain silent. When Paul’s fingertips meet the resistance of the tight ring of muscles, he kisses away the tension in John’s neck. They scissor and slide inch by inch. Eyes loosely shut, he sighs as his body relaxes—forever receptive to Paul’s touch.

“This what you want?” Paul rasps against the shelf of his jaw.

“It’ll do,” he answers cheekily.

In response Paul forcibly bends his leg higher and crooks his fingers, opening John up as much as he can. The subtle adjustment lures the digits deeper, nudging his prostate. He moans, grappling for Paul’s back like a climber on the overhang of a cliff. Fingernails bite crescents into the side of his thigh as though in wicked praise.

With a chuckle Paul says, “Who knew Thisbe was such a loose lass?”

“Fuck off,” John mutters, and forces their lips together in an ardent kiss.

More heavily now his body relies on the wall at his back, though the muscular quadriceps in his thigh work unflaggingly to maintain that perfect angle. Typically, he would rather feel the length of Paul’s cock inside of him to get off, but the stimulation offers the extra push he needed. He jerks himself off in tandem with every stroke against his prostate. For the first time, John looks down at himself as his fist pumps, and sees the outline of a proud erection beneath the rumpled dress. All while Paul fingers him as though he’s a sex-crazed bird.

Jesus Christ.

“Mmm, harder, I…I’m clo—”

“I dunno where they’ve got off to,” George’s voice suddenly squeezes inside from beyond the door like another prop.

In an instant Paul’s hand abandons his thigh and clamps over his mouth like a muzzle. The fingers stroking his prostate never flag. But a noise of protest escapes John as the sudden drop of his leg alters the angle. Desperately he secures it back over Paul’s hip, uses him for leverage.

“Not a word, remember?” Paul warns, voice edged with authority. Adding a third finger, he rubs harder against John’s prostate. “That better?”

John frowns and nods frantically as his back arches.

“Life imitates art, as they say,” Ringo’s voice merrily adds in the hallway.

Heavy breaths ricochet from Paul’s skin and beat back against John’s own face—sweat beading at his nape from stiff air. His nostrils flare for deeper, greedier intakes of air. He can practically taste the euphoria, salty as the palm of his lover’s hand. With great effort, he tries to keep his eyes on Paul. A slave to the mastery in his dark eyes. But when he hastens the speed of his own strokes, his eyes roll in his head. A more obsequious slave to pleasure.

“C’mon, Johnny,” Paul whispers in his ear, every knuckle of his fingers felt inside of him. “I know this is what you needed.”

He moans in response and the hand clamps more adamantly against his mouth.

_“Shh,”_ he insists, lips brushing the burning tip of John’s ear. “Throw on a dress and suddenly yer as noisy as a bird too. Wouldn’t want anyone to walk in on us like this.” 

A blood-rush in his head, John can’t even hear if the others are still searching for them in the hall. The words coil around him, every muscle fiber taut from the constriction. His brow corrugates and mouth fights its calloused cage as his orgasm teems over him. With little consideration for the costume, he comes on the virgin-white dress. The fabric is soft and unfamiliar on his warm, hard flesh. The leg wrapped around Paul like a serpent on a staff slips down his arse as it trembles. But Paul pins him to the wall to keep him upright as he strokes himself through it. Viciously John pants against his palm, now slackening its hold.

Paul turns his head and glances at the door. “Okay, I think they’ve—”

Scarcely allowing his heartbeat to regulate, John immediately drops to his knees.

With a deftness uncommon after such a taxing climax, he tugs down Paul’s trousers, takes him in hand, and wraps his reddened mouth around him. 

“—oh fuck,” Paul chokes out, one hand stiff-arming the wall while the other fists John’s hair.

He doesn’t lighten up. Doesn’t take his time. Doesn’t tease or seek revenge for the palm smothering his pleasured cries. An imprint that throbs angrily across his lips and cheeks like a fresh brand that he wears with pride. 

“You quick bastard,” Paul goes on, laugh entangled with moan. “Christ, absolutely brilliant mouth.”

John hums, obsessed with the flutter of Paul’s endless lashes from the vibrations down his shaft. Scarlet-cheeked and disheveled, he watches John taking as much of him as he can, and then some. With one hand squeezing his hairy thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock, John steadies him as his head bobs faster. Insistent with his tongue and bolder with each inch.

“S’fuckin’ perfect,” Paul quietly praises.

From the hitch in his voice, John hears the arduous effort with which he’s bottling his own sounds. But his hips beg on behalf of his silence, undulating slow and fluid with the rhythm. His fingers twist in John’s hair as he tries to warn, “Oh yes, I-I’m gonna….” 

A low groan rattles from his throat—the loudest they’ve been yet—as he fills John’s mouth. He swallows, finally easing up. He wipes his eyes of the trace tears from over-ambition and looks up at Paul. His forearms buttress him against the wall, labored breathing cascading upon John like a torrid rainfall. He runs his hands up and down Paul’s slender legs in the interim of his recuperation. Eyes softly shut and all tension petering away from every delicate line of his face.

“Maybe some warning next time, yeah?” he breathes.

John smiles and kisses his thigh. “Cramped for time, baby.”

For a brief, sober moment, the realization of what transpired finally reels through his mind: he just got off while wearing a dress. Logically, he can’t fault himself for what he happened to be wearing at the time. At least the costume department was minimal and masculine enough in their styling. But there was something decidedly taboo in that contiguity of femininity and masculinity. Liberation, easy access, inherent wrongness—it stirred his blood.

But there’s no time to ponder the confusion of a lust-driven haze.

He pulls the left leg of his tights back up and hauls on his boot. With a ragged cloth he cleans the inside of the dress to the best of his ability. Hopefully it won’t see any more use after their performance anyway. Otherwise, some poor bastard is in for an awful surprise.

“Bloody hell, where’s me wig?” John murmurs with a frown as he briefly scans the floor. When he finally spots it in the disarray of props, he sucks his teeth. “For Christ’s sake, Paul, you’ve flattened a braid.”

“What’s to say it wasn’t you?” he argues, similarly making himself presentable.

“I only had one leg keepin’ me up.”

Laughing, Paul helps him to his feet. “Yeah, how’s that feelin’?”

“Properly dead.” He shakes some feeling back into it for emphasis.

“I’ll massage it later for you, then, yeah?” Smirking, he pecks John on the lips. “Since you were such a good girl for me.”

John snorts. “Don’t let the dress fool ya, I still punch like a bloke.”

Gently, he nudges Paul’s jaw with his fist, then moves for the door—certain that the hunt for their whereabouts has not ceased—until Paul grabs his arm.

“Wait, wait—” Bending down, he dusts the black specks of dirt from the knees of John’s dress. For good measure he also combs through his messy fringe, eradicating any evidence. “Your arms look great in this thing by the way.”

He squeezes his bicep, and a smile quirks John’s lips, heart full. They lean in for one last kiss, more languid but no less passionate. After they part, Paul cracks open the door with supreme caution and peers outside. Wider and wider the gap becomes as they ensure the hallway is clear. Stealthily, they emerge from the closet and conduct themselves as casually as possible to avoid suspicion.

Like clockwork, Ringo’s voice reaches them from the opposite end. “Seems Thisbe an’ Pyramus have eloped and run off together.”

Still in costume themselves, he and George grin at the sight of their missing bandmates. Ducking his head back around the corner, George shouts, “Oi, we found ‘em, Eppy!”

As their manager rounds the corner, his shoulders drop with relief. “Where in God’s name were you two?” he asks, heels impatiently scolding the floor as he approaches them.

“Found Paul sniffin’ up the skirts of some dancers, so I had to drag ‘im back,” John lies smoothly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Where’s your helmet, Paul?” George asks.

He pats his head, and John notices the quick dart of his eyes to the closet. Shrugging it off, he excuses it with, “Must’ve dropped the damn thing again. Never was a proper fit.”

“Never mind it, let’s get all of you changed.” With businesslike resolve Brian leads them into the dressing room. “We’ve got a very tight schedule.”

When Paul motions for John to enter with a, “Ladies first,” he giggles and curtseys and prances inside. As they shed their stage clothes and fall into their normal frenzy, complicit smirks pass across the glass of mirrors. Occasionally, they mouth Shakespearean sentiments to one another with enough levity that they can pretend the words have no true taste. But a lump builds in John’s throat each time he tries to swallow them.

Wadding the dress up, he tosses it into a corner of the dressing room and trades it for his usual suit and tie. The memory of its wispy touch still sleeps on his skin like silk. A reminder that two tragedians can find their way around that vile wall after all.

**Author's Note:**

> paul's legs will get some attention soon
> 
> if you have an idea for this thigh/leg series, leave it at my [tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> (also shoutout to my dear friend and talented artist @hide-your-bugs-away, who posts amazing drawings of the Shakespeare skit. [this one](https://hide-your-bugs-away.tumblr.com/post/190996608014/oh-kiss-me-through-the-hole-of-this-vile) is my absolute favorite and damn near captures this fic)


End file.
